t jar you."

There was a silence as they walked up-town, which lasted until they
entered their lodgings. And by that time they had concluded to go.

[Illustration]

VII

[Illustration]

So they went, having nothing better on hand, and at two o'clock they
sidled into the squatty little theater, shyly sought their reserved
seats and sat very still, abashed in the presence of the massed
intellects of Manhattan.

When Clarence Guilford, the Poet of Simplicity, followed by six healthy,
vigorous young daughters, entered the middle aisle of the New Arts
Theater, a number of people whispered in reverent recognition:
"Guilford, the poet! Those are his daughters. They wear nothing but pink
pajamas at home. Sh-sh-h-h!"

Perhaps the poet heard, for he heard a great deal when absent-minded.
He paused; his six tall and blooming daughters, two and two behind him,
very naturally paused also, because the poet was bulky and the aisle
narrow.

Those of the elect who had recognized him had now an opportunity to view
him at close range; young women with expressive eyes leaned forward,
quivering; several earnest young men put up lorgnettes.

It was as it should have been; and the poet stood motionless in dreamy
abstraction, until an usher took his coupons and turned down seven
seats. Then the six daughters filed in, and the poet, slowly turning to
survey the house, started slightly, as though surprised to find himself
under public scrutiny, passed a large, plump hand over his forehead, and
slowly subsided into the aisle-seat with a smile of whimsical
acquiescence in the knowledge of his own greatness.

"Who," inquired young Harrow, turning toward Lethbridge--"who is that
duck?"

"You can search me," replied Lethbridge in a low voice, "but for
Heaven's sake _look_ at those girls! Is it right to bunch such beauty
and turn down Senators from Utah?"

Harrow's dazzled eyes wandered over the six golden heads and snowy
necks, lovely as six wholesome young goddesses fresh from a bath in the
Hellespont.

"The--the one next to the one beside you," whispered Lethbridge, edging
around. "I want to run away with her. Would you mind getting me a
hansom?"

"The one next to me has them all pinched to death," breathed Harrow
unsteadily. "Look!--when she isn't looking. Did you ever see such eyes
and mouth--such a superb free poise----"

"Sh-sh-h-h!" muttered Lethbridge, "the bell-mule is talking to them."

"Art," said the poe